Purgatory
by D-chan
Summary: Homura x Rinrei, Homura x Goku :: character death, mild language, shounen ai, surrealism, series spoilers :: The child within the man often makes even the seemingly simplest decisions difficult.


**:: Purgatory ::**

_Gensomaden__ Saiyuki_

Disclaimer: I don't own Gensomaden Saiyuki, which rightfully belongs to Minekura Kazuya.

Rating: PG

Pairings: Homura/Rinrei, Homura/Goku, hinting of Goku/Sanzo

Warnings: angst, character death, mild language, shounen ai, surrealism, series spoilers

Notes: Random idea that formed after I just sat down to... well, let loose and write. I'm not exactly sure where this came from, nor why I chose to write it in first person. ; But here we are.

Constructive criticism and feedback is always appreciated.

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Heat. Humidity. Drowsiness. One enhancing the effect of the other, another pressing a heavy weight upon his body, all ensnaring him in a state of perpetual exhaustion. He wants to move, yet desires nothing but to lie still. To rest is to sleep, to sleep is to dream, and to dream is to escape. 

His wrists are enveloped in a biting cold. He feels captive, trapped, alone. At the same time, he senses something at the fuzzy edges of his perception: freedom, bliss, companionship. There is someone with him, beside him, before him, within him, embracing him. Warmth closes in on him, swaddling him in a cocoon of safety.

This, he has been promised.

He wants to see where he lounges, but is hesitant to open his eyes to even the narrowest of slits. Because there is fear. So long as he can't see, he is protected. To look would shatter the thin glass of inviolability, would thrust him into the sneering, tearing jaws of the unpredictable. He is brave; he knows he is strong.

At the same time, he is terrified. Snug inside his adult shell curls a small child, the form of a boy who never had the chance to grow up. Oh, he is mature; he knows when and how to be an adult. He can realize the negative and positive side of situations, possesses the ability to observe, criticize, dissect, and judge in a patient, worldly manner. Like an adult, he has also been impaled with the bitterness life has to offer. Though at the time he hadn't realized it, whilst moving from childhood to adulthood (he could not call this growing up, for it was only his body that aged), he had been spoon-fed his vile medicine for as long as he can remember. He has always been censured. The contempt of his being has never been hidden from him; why hide it when he was such an abomination? He ought to know what he was.

Not who. What. And he did. He knew what he was. Knowing was what helped him shape himself into the fragile man he is today.

Fragile. Delicate. Frail. To be handled with care. All gentle words to cover the harsh one that is simply _weak_.

His eyelids crack open, though not enough for him to see past the thick darkness of his eyelashes. Trepidation holds him still, causes his lashes to tremble momentarily, and then clench shut again. Somehow, he knows that upon looking, he will see the very essence of Hell. He has already been to Heaven; he hated it. In comparison, perhaps he would prefer to see Hell.

Or perhaps Hell was really to be his rebirth into Heaven, and that idea he cannot stand.

Still, he is anxious to see his fate. He wants to have it over with, and the rational, mature part of him understands that he must deal and make the best of what cards he is given. But there is still the boy, the child confined within him just as securely as he had been imprisoned for the majority of his life. The child only wants to sleep; to hide.

Yet it is also the child whose curiosity pleads for him to open his eyes. He does.

Vast blue is spread out before him, smeared with soft puffs of white. He lies on a cushion of grass. The threading of the makeshift bed is made primarily of green, with the hard softness of the dirt beneath him, only slightly accommodating his figure. The coldness wrapping around his wrists has vanished, as though they were never there in the first place. He thinks he is dreaming, and maybe he is right.

Gentle peace steals over him, settling into his tense limbs. He relaxes, gaze fixated dreamily on the sky above him. Not the heavens; it was too beautiful a sight to be that of the faux paradise. In the Heaven he knows, all is living, but not really _existing_. All breathes, but shows no sign of vitality, originality, not even the vigorous determination to _live_. Live without boundaries, with rules but not laws, in which the policies lain out are unspoken but followed, for the consequences are dire but fair.

There is naught a breeze, but something causes strands of his hair to brush against his cheek. Pensively, like that of a small boy still coddled by his mother and protected from the world, he tilts his head back. The move is ever so slight, but it brings into his vision what he hadn't seen before, as well as makes him realize he is not entirely resting on the ground. His back slopes up, his head nestled in someone's thighs. A glimmer of sandy-blonde hair catches his eye, then a shadow of azure, and finally the softness of a pretty smile that makes his heart ache.

"Rinrei," he whispers.

Her slender fingers brush more hair from his vision, and she continues to smile. "Hello again."

It has been years since he has seen her, and she looks exactly as he remembers her: sweet-tempered, appearing passive but radiant, her eyes shimmering with a wholesome light of love that sears him through. He has loved her; still loves her. To think that he has died, only to be reunited with the woman he loved -- loves -- is more than he deserves. Were he any lesser a man, had he not matured and hardened himself to keep the soft core inside him protected, he would have cried.

Instead, he merely reaches up. His knuckles caress her tender cheek, and in response she holds his hand closer, pressing her lips to his fingers. His lungs constrict to make way for the swelling of his heart, and right then he almost gives in to what he has to remind himself he cannot be capable of. At least, not now. He will not ruin this moment.

"I am dead," he says simply.

She smiles, though it is strangely sad. "You are."

He is afraid to voice the question, though knows he must sooner or later. He decides on sooner, choking down the childish insistence for more time alone with his love. "Will you... stay with me?"

The words come out in the barest of whispers. If there were even the slightest breeze, she would not have heard him. As it is, she continues to smile, her eyes growing sadder all the while.

"That is not the question you should be asking," she murmurs. At his visible puzzlement, Rinrei continues. "The question you want to ask is, 'Will I stay with you?' "

He does not understand, and voices this.

She does not answer, and looks up, away from him.

He follows her gaze, and to his utter amazement, is met with an even more familiar face. The golden eyes are brighter than they ever were when he saw them, as though this person, too, has found complete and utter freedom. The impish glint has not faded, nor has the familiar, fainter glimmer of an unvoiced need. He is surprised to see this being here, for he knows _he_ is dead, but this being should not be.

"Son Goku..."

The boy extends a hand to him. His golden coronet is missing, but his hair is short, his eyes without the slitting pupils of his demonic counterpart. He bears no fangs, no claws, no hint of malice. He is Son Goku, not Seiten Taisei, and he confuses the man.

"C'mon," the boy says cheerfully. "Let's go."

He does not move, but considers the offering. Rather than directly respond, he asks carefully, "Where?"

"Well, you gotta go somewhere," Goku replies, raising an eyebrow. He lifts his eyes to Rinrei, and at last the man detaches himself from her. He sits up, turning to her as well.

Rinrei does not meet his eyes. Instead, she runs her fingers through the grass as though it were silken hair. She plucks a flower, twirling it delicately in her fingers.

Finally, she speaks. Her voice is a low murmur. "You are a rare person, Homura. As you lived, the blood of a goddess and the blood of a human flowed through your veins. The mixture made you a heresy." This he knows; she needn't tell him. Still, she does, and so she must have reason. He assumes she is building her personal defenses for what may come. "When one dies alone, with no one close to their heart, they may either move on to become part of the Karmic Mandela, or to the resting place with others of their kind. Those who die alone rarely get to choose. Those who die with a loved one go with the loved one. Those who die but insist on waiting for a loved one may remain in Purgatory."

He does not understand, and knows better than to look to Son Goku for help. The boy was bright, but he constantly fumbled with explanations. Rinrei must reveal everything to him.

"I have been in Purgatory," she says, though her confession is unnecessary. He has no doubt of that; they were very much in love, so much that they had defied the heavens. In the end it had brought them nothing but pain, but at the time both had been very much like children, blinded by their own needs and wants. "Likewise... so has your friend."

He looks at Son Goku, and the boy looks somewhat sheepish. Rubbing the back of his head, the brunette admits, "I had nowhere else to go... Sanzo's always gonna be reborn, but I can't. I'm part of the earth."

Somehow it makes sense, and yet it doesn't. Son Goku and Konzen -- in his most recent life, known as Sanzo -- had been inseparable for centuries. Even apart, they had been drawn to each other. For Death to part them seemed... surreal. Unreal. Unbelievable.

"But you're a heretic, too," Son Goku reminds him. The boyish look fades, replaced by an expression the man is unfamiliar with; solemnity, touched by a few years worth of wisdom. "At least half, anyway. And... that means you could come with me." Shrugging, the boy adds in a smaller tone, "And I hate to be alone, so..."

So he had come here, for him. But Rinrei was also here, waiting for him.

"But you are alive," he protests. The attempt is weak.

For the first time, Son Goku appears pained. "No one lives forever," the boy says. "Not even me. You died... we went west... and then I died..." He shakes his head, averting his eyes as Rinrei had done. "It was weird... when I died... I thought of Sanzo, and I thought of you. But Sanzo's soul is different from mine. It's made from different stuff, you know? I can't see him again, ever. So I..." He dwindles off, seemingly in frustration. Thus affirming the man's earlier assumption.

"But you were not dead when I was," the man says, struggling to think through his muddled mind. "How...?"

"You died in another world," Rinrei gently points out. "Your soul was in a much further plane. It took you longer to get here."

Now he understands.

The choice to make is far more difficult than he would have thought. He surprises himself with the acknowledgement. After all, Rinrei was his first love, his requited love. Son Goku... admittedly, Son Goku was his second love, though he had never said so aloud. He had been unsure how to handle that, and in desperation had striven to hold on to Rinrei's memory even more. But here, after life, moving on into death, he can confess what has until then been impossible to even acknowledge.

Hardly does it seem fair to deny Rinrei what she has been waiting for. Her loyalty has shown through her endurance, her determination to wait for him. Love requires patience, and infinite patience practically guarantees true love.

But, as he has discovered by loving Goku, there is no such thing as one true love. Love cannot be confined to merely one being. When one dies, the person left behind is expected to move on and find another; otherwise they will end their life in heartbreak. That had never been his intention, and yet it has happened; he has grown to love Son Goku.

He knows Rinrei loves him.

He does not know if Son Goku does. And yet, the boy has come to him. In spite of their past disputes, he has sought the man out for eternal companionship.

Certainty glimmers in both of their eyes; one pair blue, one gold. As his eyes were; one blue, one gold. Torn between two loves.

They are sure of what they want. They wait on him. He must decide.

Slowly, the man reaches out. The air, though it hasn't changed, has grown still, tension shivering through every fiber. He hesitates. His eyes flicker back and forth. The unfairness of the weight pressed upon him is unbearable, like the heat he had been encased in whilst his eyes were closed. He wishes to scream in frustration. Either way someone is pleased; either way someone else is hurt. Either way, he is both happy and pained.

He clasps a hand, and receives two smiles; one sad, and one relieved.

Indeed, he has endured a different kind of Hell.


End file.
